For over four decades, artist DY Begay expanded the expressive range of Diné (Navajo) weaving, transforming the form into a language that is entirely her own. She is a Diné Asdzą́ą́ (Navajo woman), born to the Tótsohnii (Big Water) clan and born for the Táchii’nii (Red Running into Water/Earth) clan. Her maternal grandfather is of the Tsénjíkiní (Cliff Dweller) clan and her paternal grandfather is of the Áshįįhí (Salt People) clan.
Begay is a fifth-generation weaver who was raised in Tsélání (Cottonwood) on the Navajo Nation, where her family’s sheep flock still resides. Rooted in Diné Bikéyah (Navajo homelands) — from the cliffs of Tsélání to the horizon of the Lukachukai Mountains — her work reflects the blended hues of sunsets, mesas, and mountain ranges, while her use of wool from her family’s flock and natural dyes binds her practice to the land she seeks to honor and protect.
After graduating from Arizona State University in 1979, Begay moved to New Jersey and immersed herself in the fiber art world of New York City. She studied historic Diné textiles at the Museum of the American Indian, whose collections later became part of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian (NMAI). Most of these pieces were created by Diné weavers whose names were not recorded, likely women. She also took inspiration from the work of artists such as Anni Albers, Sheila Hicks, and Lenore Tawney — all of whom trained in modern Western traditions yet studied Indigenous weaving practices. Their work encouraged Begay to study multiple Indigenous weaving practices herself, forming a foundation for experimentation across cultures. As early as 1985, Begay was publicly urging her fellow Diné weavers to see their textiles not simply as trade goods but as works of art — a conviction she has carried through decades of practice.
DY Begay, “Enchanted Indigo” (2022), wool and plant dye (photo by Walter Larrimore, courtesy the National Museum of the American Indian)
When she returned to Tsélání in 1989, her grandmother, Desbáh Yazzie Nez (1908–2003), saw her weavings and urged her to develop her own compositional sensibility. Begay quickly gained recognition at the Heard Museum Guild Indian Fair and Market as well as the Santa Fe Indian Market, yet she felt restless in her practice. By 1994, that questioning crystallized into a breakthrough: She began developing color hatching, a method of creating subtle gradations and nuanced color interactions that transformed the solid, banded designs of conventional Diné weaving.
This innovation marked a turning point, pushing her weavings beyond inherited patterning and toward a color-driven abstraction and incorporation of undulating bands that would become her signature visual style, as in “Pollen Path” (2006), which references her memories of collecting corn pollen with her sisters. She is also part of a wave of weavers who’ve sought to revive Diné wool garments including serapes, which fell out of fashion in the late 19th century amid the United States government’s policies of removal, imprisonment, and assimilation. Begay’s recent survey at the NMAI in Washington, DC, and its accompanying monograph, presented 48 textiles made primarily over three decades, situating her long career within both Diné lineage and contemporary art. After exhibiting at the Santa Fe Indian Market in August, Begay spoke with us over Zoom from her home in Santa Fe. The interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.
Sháńdíín Brown and Zach Feuer: In Sublime Light: Tapestry Art of DY Begay, the first book dedicated to you and your recent retrospective at the NMAI, you write about watching your mother and grandmother weave in the hogan. How did you get started on your first weaving, and what did those early works look like? Can you tell us about your early teachers?
DB: I don’t remember the very first time I picked up weaving tools and set a loom on my own. I was very young. I do remember standing behind my mother’s loom, watching her pull colored yarns over and around the warps. Her fingers moved swiftly in and out, pressing the wefts into place. Within minutes, geometric shapes stacked and formed into the outline of a Ganado-style weaving. At that age — maybe four or five — I could not quite comprehend how those shapes came together. I was always perplexed and in awe. Everything happened so fast in front of me as her hands composed lines and rows of colored yarn.
I grew up surrounded by weavers: my maternal grandmother, my mother, and my aunts. Someone was always at the loom, often positioned in a very central place inside the hogan. And we lived in the hogan when I was growing up, and everybody else did too.
I watched my mother create stepped patterns with hand-dyed yarns, moving with precision and grace. Teaching came through showing. It was a physical action. The word that I always remember, and is still used today, is kót’é — “like this.” My mother said “kót’é, kót’é.” That was her teaching. I learned by sitting quietly, watching closely, following the movements of the hands. This was how the elders shared their weaving knowledge: through demonstration, patience, and presence. It was not a formal instruction. I don’t remember asking questions. It was always “kót’é, kót’é.”
Begay with weaving tools in her home studio in August 2025 (photo by and courtesy Kelso Meyer)
SB & ZF: Do you remember the moment when you first began weaving yourself — whether your family set up a loom for you or you started working on theirs?
DB: I was very curious. I tried to hold my mother’s tools, but they were too big for my hands. When she wasn’t home or she was outside, I used to plant myself in front of the loom, pull the weft through, and try to tap it down, but it never worked. Eventually, she allowed me to sit with her once in a while and said “kót’é, kót’é.” I began to get used to the natural action of tapping with the combs. I was about eight years old when I had my own loom. I don’t remember its size. My mother prepared the warp and I used leftover yarn from her bin. I do remember finishing my first weaving, maybe two colors. It was pretty decent for a first attempt. It was a good learning situation because my mother was there. She would sometimes unweave certain parts and we would go on and on. I also used to sneak in a few lines on her loom, and she always noticed.
SB & ZF: What happened to those early pieces? Did she take them to a trading post or market?
DB: I don’t really know. Most finished weavings, maybe two by three or three by three feet, and some saddle blankets, were taken by my father and my grandfather to the local trading posts to exchange for food, fabric, or whatever was needed. My mother never went to the trading post herself — we didn’t have a vehicle then, so transportation was by wagon or horses. They would roll up the weavings, pack them, and take them to the trading post. I don’t remember what happened to many of my earliest pieces, but there was one on exhibit at the NMAI from 1966. That’s the only one that I know.
Begay’s “Early Weaving” (1966), which appeared in Sublime Light (photo by Walter Larrimore, courtesy the National Museum of the American Indian)
SB & ZF: Could you tell us about “Pollen Path”? What inspired it and how did you approach creating these works?
DB: In weaving “Pollen Path,” I wanted to share a cultural belief. Among the Diné, we sprinkle corn pollen to honor a new day, to seek blessings, and to bring balance into our lives. Corn itself is a sacred plant. The pollen is collected in late summer, when the tassels of the corn begin to pollinate. We gather it in the early morning, just before the sun rises. For me, “Pollen Path” reflects peace, beauty, and gratitude for life.
The project began in the summer of 2007, a very good year for growing plants that I use in dyeing my wool. My sister, Berdina Y. Charley, planted local corn seeds she received from our Táchii’nii (Red Running into Water/Earth) relatives. I believe these were heirloom seeds from our Táchii’nii family. That summer became not only a time of planting and weaving, but also a perfect opportunity to collect pollen and refill our pollen bags.
DY Begay, “Pollen Path” (2007), churro and merino wool and plant and synthetic dyes (photo by Walter Larrimore, courtesy the National Museum of the American Indian)
SB & ZF: How do you translate the experience of walking in beauty, through the landscapes of Diné Bikéyah (Navajo Country) and more specifically your home of Tsélani (Cottonwood), into the two-dimensional form of weaving?
DB: Not only do I have my Tsélani landscape embedded in my mind, but I frequently photograph the surrounding textures at various times of the day to capture different lighting as it reflects on the terrain. I use these photos to evoke not only two dimensions, but also three dimensions to develop the scenes on my loom.
SB & ZF: Can you share about your family’s sheep flock, its history, and how it has shaped your weaving practice?
DB: My family has raised sheep for many generations. They were our main source of food, wool for weaving, and even a way to trade for goods at the local trading post. Today, my sister Berdina continues that tradition by raising Navajo-Churro sheep for both weaving and food. She’s helping to keep the sheep tradition alive, and because of that, we still have the resource — the wool — to spin into yarn and carry our weaving forward.
Sublime Light: Tapestry Art of DY Begay; DY Begay; Intended Vermillion dyed yarn samples (photo by Walter Larrimore, courtesy the National Museum of the American Indian)
SB & ZF: Can you tell us about your color palette and the process of dyeing the wool? Is it essential for you to use and make dyes that are from the earth?
DB: I have been practicing and experimenting with natural dyes for quite a while, and I love using local plants to create my color palette. It is both essential and traditional in my culture to use what the earth provides to create dyes for our yarn.
My palette comes from many sources. I work with common plants such as cota (Navajo tea), chamisa, rabbitbrush, and sage. I also use non-native materials like insects, fungi, foods, and flowers. Each has its own season, and I collect plants according to the time of year.
The process itself is an experiment every time. I’ve studied many dyeing methods and learned to be attentive to formulas that help obtain and preserve the colors. For me, making dyes from the earth is not only practical but also deeply connected to tradition and creativity.
Begay with walnut hulls, which she uses to make natural dyes (photo by and courtesy Kelso Meyer)
SB & ZF: Were there particular people, experiences, or moments that prompted transitions and growth in your weaving style?
DB: Yes, I can think of two people. My paternal grandmother, Desbáh Yazzie Nez, was a prolific weaver and dyer. She always encouraged me to continue weaving and reminded me that I had a wonderful sense of design — that I should not limit myself to trading post styles. I cherish her thoughtful words to this day.
In the early 1980s, I met Helena Hernmarck, a Swedish tapestry artist. During one of my visits to her studio in Connecticut, she told me that I had “an innate sense of color and design” and encouraged me to explore and express my creativity more fully.
SB & ZF: You’ve drawn from Indigenous Plains peoples’ painted parfleche and from Quechua weaving practices. What are other reference points that inspire your work? How do you bring these visual and cultural influences into conversation with Diné weaving, and what drew you to explore Native female abstraction from other regions?
DB: I have a great appreciation for the handmade rawhide containers, and I am intrigued by compositions painted on bags, containers, and envelopes used by the Plains people. The compositions on parfleches are beautifully organized as in Diné weaving patterns. I love the use of bold colors, the arrangements of contrasting colors, and how the color combinations are arranged on the hides.
As for Quechua weaving, I was always interested in serapes and ponchos. Growing up around weavers in my family, I have not been able to find anyone weaving a serape or have any stories related to serapes. I learned that many of the serapes today are housed in private or museum collections. I did some research in several museums examining and studying serapes, and the project led me to Peru. I spent a month [in 2000] traveling to weaving communities, collaborating with weavers and exchanging weaving traditions.
During my visits in various communities, I was honored to have been invited into their homes and taught some weaving techniques, like working on an Andean backstrap. I was inspired by the weavers and the innovative designs they applied to the backstrap looms.
I was very pleased to find out that many of the Indigenous people still wear serapes that they have woven or have been woven for them. I was captivated by the colors, the elaborate designs, the styles and their uses. I designed and wove my Diné version of a Peruvian serape after I returned to Tsélani. I hope the Diné weavers will be inspired to recreate some traditional serapes and return to wearing them, too.
DY Begay, “Biníghádzíltł’óní (Woven Through)” (2012), wool and insect and plant dyes (photo by Walter Larrimore, courtesy the National Museum of the American Indian)
SB & ZF: Diné Bizaad was your first language. How has thinking and speaking in Diné Bizaad shaped the way you approach weaving? Did you also learn to weave Diné Bizaad?
DB: Aóó [yes], Diné Bizaad is my first language.
It is essential and deeply connected. Diné Bizaad carries words that describe the techniques, processes, and loom parts, and each is necessary to the act of weaving. Using the correct Diné weaving terminology is not only important — it grounds the practice in our way of thinking and knowing.
Diné Bizaad was always spoken, as it is my language. The teaching, instructions, the guidance, even the corrections — all were given in our language. Today, it is taught in English, which is also appropriate. Especially for the Diné who don’t speak the language.
SB & ZF: Hózhó is often translated as “beauty, harmony, and balance.” In your weaving practice, was bringing hózhó into the work a conscious choice, or was it something ingrained in you through teachings? How does it materialize in your designs, especially in your use of color and pattern?
DB: Yes, hózhó dólaá is the expression I use. It expresses gratification for harmony, well-being, and being in the moment for each day. “Hózhó” is a daily expression. It is ingrained in my existence as a Diné.
For me, weaving space itself is a sacred space. That’s where I focus on creativity, on color, on the designs and ideas. So when I’m weaving, that sense of balance and harmony naturally flows into the work. It comes through in the colors I choose and the way the patterns evolve.
Begay with a selection of her naturally dyed fibers in her studio in August 2025 (photo by and courtesy Kelso Meyer)
DY Begay, “The Natural” (1994), wool and plant dyes (photo by Walter Larrimore, courtesy the National Museum of the American Indian)
Begay’s preparatory sketches for “Intended Vermillion,” watercolor, colored pencil, and graphite (photo by Walter Larrimore, courtesy the National Museum of the American Indian)
DY Begay, “Intended Vermillion” (2015), wool with plant, insect, and synthetic dyes (image courtesy the Denver Art Museum)
